Under some circumstances, and upon some conditions, there are few
things fairer on this earth than a walk through a wild forest by
moonlight. It must not be, however, one of those deep unbroken
primeval forests, which are found in many parts of the new world,
where the wilderness of trees rises up, like a black curtain, on every
side, shutting out the view, and almost excluding the light of day
from the face of the earth. But a forest in old England, at the period
of which I speak, was a very different thing. Tall trees there were,
and many, and in some places they were crowded close together; but in
others the busy woodman's axe, and the more silent but more incessant
strokes of time, had opened out wide tracts, where nothing was to be
seen but short brushwood, stunted oak, beech tree and ash, rising up
in place of the forest monarchs long passed away, like the pigmy
efforts of modern races appearing amidst the ruins of those gigantic
empires, which have left memorials that still defy the power of time.
Indeed, I never behold a wide extent of old forest land, covered with
shrubby wood, with here and there a half-decayed trunk rising grandly
above the rest, without imagination flying far away to those lands of
marvel, where the wonders of the world arose and perished--the land of
the Pharaohs, of the Assyrians, and of the Medes; ay, and of the
Romans too--those lands in which the power and genius of the only
mighty European empire displayed themselves more wonderfully than even
in the imperial city, the land of Bolbec and Palmyra. The Arab's hut,
built amongst the ruins of the temple of the sun, is a fit type of
modern man, contrasted with the races that have passed. True, the
Roman empire was destroyed by the very tribes from which we spring;
but it was merely the dead carcase of the Behemoth eaten up by ants.
Be all that as it may, an English forest scene is very beautiful by
moonlight, and especially when the air has been cleared by a light
frost, as was the case when the woodman took his way back towards his
cottage, after his visit to the abbey. The road was broad and
open--one of the highroads of the country, indeed--sandy enough, in
all conscience, and not so smooth as it might have been; but still it
served its purpose; and people in those days called it a good road.
Here, an old oak eighteen or twenty feet in girth, which might have
seen the noble ill-fated Harold, stretched its long limbs across the
turfy waste ground at its feet, and over the yellow track of the road
beaten by horses' feet. In other places the eye might wander far over
a wide scantily-covered track of ground, with here and there a tall
tree starting up and casting its broad shadow upon the white and
glistening expanse of bushes below. A vague sort of mysterious
uncertainty hung about the dells and dingles of the wood,
notwithstanding the brightness of the moonlight; and a faint blueish
mist prevented the eye from penetrating into the deeper valleys, and
searching their profundity. To the left, the ground sloped away with a
gentle descent. To the right, it rose somewhat more abruptly; and,
peeping over the leafless trees in the latter direction, appeared here
and there a square wall and tower, cutting sharp and defined upon the
rounded forms of the forest. Above all stretched out the wide deep
sky, with the moon nearly at the full, flooding the zenith with light,
while to, the north and west shone out many bright and twinkling
stars, not yet hidden by the beams of earth's bright satellite.
With a slow and a firm step, the woodman trudged upon his way, pausing
every now and then to gaze around him, more, apparently, as a matter
of habit than with any purpose; for he seemed full of busy thoughts;
and even when he stopped and let his eye roam around, it is probable
that his mind was on other things, once or twice, murmuring a few
words to himself, which had certainly no reference to the scene. "Ah,
Mary, Mary," he said, and then added: "Alas! Alas!"
There was something deeply melancholy in his tone. The words were
spoken low and softly; and a sigh followed them, the echo of memory to
the voice of joys passed.
Onward he walked again, the road somewhat narrowing as he proceeded,
till at length the tall trees, pressing forward on either side, shut
out the light of the moon, except where, here and there, the rays
stole through the leafless branches and chequered the frosty turf.
As he was passing through one of the darkest parts of the wood,
keeping a good deal to the left of the road, the sound of a horse's
feet was heard coming fast down from the top of the hill. Without
change of pace or look, however, the stout woodman walked on, seeming
to pay little attention to the measured beating of the ground by the
strong hoofs, as they came on at a quick trot. Nearer and nearer,
however, they approached, till at length they suddenly stopped, just
as the horse and rider were passing the man on foot, and a voice
exclaimed, "Who goes there?"
"A friend," replied the woodman. "You must have sharp eyes, whoever
you be."
"Sharp eyes and sharp ears too," replied the horseman. "Stand out, and
tell us who you are, creeping along there under the boughs."
"Creeping along!" answered the woodman, advancing into the more open
road and placing himself in front of the rider. "I will soon tell you
who I am, and show you who I am too, master, when I know who it is
that asks the question. Since it comes to that, I bid you stand and
tell me who you are who ride the wood so late. You are none of King
Richard's posts, or you would know me;" and, at the same time, he laid
his hand upon the man's bridle.
"You are a liar," replied the horseman, "for I am one of King
Richard's posts, coming from Scotland, with news of moment, and
letters from the princess countess of Arran. Let go my bridle then,
and say who and what you are, or, by the Lord, I'll drub you in such a
way as you have seldom been drubbed before."
"Ha! Say you so?" cried the woodman, still retaining his hold of the
bridle. "I must have more satisfactory knowledge of you, ere I let you
pass; and, as for drubbing me, methinks with a green willow and a yard
or two of rope, I'd give thee that which thou hast not tasted since
thou wert a boy."
"So, so," said the man, "thou art a robber, doubtless. These woods are
full of them, they say; but thou shalt find me a tougher morsel than
often falls within thy teeth. Take that for thy pains."
As he spoke, he suddenly drew his sword from the sheath, and aimed a
rapid and furious stroke at the woodman's head. His adversary,
however, was wary; and, springing on one side, he escaped the descent
of the blade. The other instantly spurred his horse forward; but,
before he could pass, the woodman had pulled his axe from his belt,
and, with a full sweep of his arm, struck a blow at the back of the
horseman's head, which cast him at once out of the saddle. It was the
back of the axe which he used, and not the sharp side; but the effect
seemed equally fatal, for the man neither moved nor spoke, and his
horse, freed from the pressure of the rein, dashed down the lane for
some way, then stopped, paused for a moment, and trotted quietly back
again.
In the meantime, the woodman approached the prostrate body of the
messenger, murmuring to himself, "Ah, caitiff, I know thee, though
thou hast forgotten me. Thou pitiful servant of treachery and
ingratitude, thou hireling serviceable knave, I would not have hurt
thee, even for thy master's sake, hadst thou not assailed me
first--Methinks he is dead," he continued, stirring the body with his
foot. "I hit thee harder than I thought; but it is well as it is. Thy
death could not come from a fitter hand than mine, were it not the
hangman's--I will see what thou hast about thee, however; for there
may be news of value indeed, if for once in thy life thou hast found a
tongue to speak truth with. But I will not believe it. The news was
too sure, the tale too sad to be false."
He stood a moment or two by the corpse, gazing upon it in silence, but
without the slightest sign of sorrow or remorse. Those were bloody and
barbarous times, it is true, when men slew each other in cold blood
after battles were over, when brother spared not brother, and the
companions of infancy and boyhood dyed their daggers in each other's
gore. Human life, as in all barbarous states of society, was held as
nought; and men hesitated as little to spill the blood of a fellow
creature as to spill their own. But yet it must surely always be a
terrible thing to take a life, to extinguish that light which we can
never reillume, to fix the fatal barrier which renders every foolish
and every dark act, every sin and every crime, irretrievable, to leave
no chance of penitence, no hope of repentance, and to send the erring
and burdened spirit into the presence of its God without one dark
record against it uncancelled. Heavy must be the offence indeed, and
deep the injury, which leaves no sorrow in the heart of the slayer.
None seemed to be felt by the woodman. He stood and gazed, as I have
said, for a moment; but it was--as he had gazed over the prospect
below--without a change of countenance; and then he stooped down and
with calm and patient investigation searched every part of the dead
man's apparel. He found, amongst other things, a purse well supplied
with gold, at least so its weight seemed to indicate; but that he put
back again at once. He found some papers too, and those he kept; but,
not satisfied with that, after some trouble he caught the horse,
examined the saddle, unloosed the girths, and between the saddle cloth
and the leather found a secret pocket from which he took more papers.
These too he kept, and put them in his wallet. Everything else, such
as trinkets, of which there were one or two, a pouncet-box, some large
curiously-shaped keys and other trifles, he carefully replaced where
he had found them. Then, taking up the dead man's hand, he raised it
and let it fall, as if to make sure that life was extinct; and then
once more he addressed the corpse, saying--
"Ay, thou art dead enough! I could find in my heart to spurn thee even
now--but no, no. It is but the clay. The demon is departed," and
picking up his axe, which he had laid down for a moment, he carefully
replaced the saddle on the horse's back, fastened up the girths, and
cast loose the rein. When this was done he resumed his walk,
proceeding with the same quiet steady pace with which he had been
wending his way towards his cottage, the moment before this adventure
befell him. All remained calm and still on the spot which he had left,
for somewhat more than an hour. The moon reached her highest point,
travelled a little to the westward, and poured her rays under the
branches of the trees where before it had been dark. The dead body
still lay upon the road. The horse remained cropping the forest grass
at the side, occasionally entangling its foot in the bridle, and once
plunging to get free so as to bring itself upon its knees. At the end
of the time I have mentioned, the woodman reappeared, coming down the
hill at the same quiet rate at which he had gone away. When he
approached the place he stopped and looked around; and then, stooping
down by the side of the dead man, he placed some of the papers in the
pocket, saying with a sort of bitter smile, which looked wild and
strange in the moonlight--
"Thy comings and goings are over; but others may carry these at least
to their destination. Oh, thou double-dealing fiend, thou hast died in
the midst of one of thy blackest deeds before it was consummated. The
messenger of the dove, thou wert but the agent of the hawk which was
watching for her as a prey, and would have betrayed her into all the
horrors of faithlessness and guilt. May God pardon thee, bad man
and--"
Again there was the sound of horses' feet coming; but this time it was
mingled with that of voices, talking with loud and somewhat boisterous
merriment.
"Some of the king's runners," said the woodman; and, with a slow step,
he retreated under the trees, and was soon lost to sight amidst the
thick brushwood. The next moment two men might be seen riding down the
hill and laughing as they came.
"'Twill be pleasant tidings to bear," said one to the other; "and my
counsel is, Jago, instead of giving them to the next post, as thy
fool's head would have it, that we turn away through the by-road to
the abbey, and carry our good news ourselves. Why, that Richmond has
put back again to France, is worth fifty broad pieces to each of us."
"But our orders were strict," answered the other; "and we have no
excuse.--But mercy have us! What is here? Some one either drunk or
dead upon the road. There stands his horse too, under that tree."
"Look to your weapon, Jago," replied his companion. "On my life, this
is that fellow Malcolm Bower, who passed us three hours ago, as proud
as a popinjay; and I'll wager a stoup of Canary, that he has met with
robbers in the wood and been murdered."
"Likely, likely," answered the other man, loosening his sword in the
sheath; "but if he have, king Richard will burn the forest down but
he'll find them; for this fellow is a great man with those he serves
now-a-days."
"Here, hold my horse," cried the other. "I'll get down and see;" and,
dismounting, he stooped over the body, and then proceeded to examine
it, commenting in broken sentences, thus--"Ay, it is he, sure enough.
Stay, he can't be murdered, I think, either, for here is his purse in
his pocket, and that well filled--and papers too, and a silver box of
comfits, on my life. Look ye here now, his horse must have thrown him
and broken his neck. No, upon my life, it's his head is broken. Here's
a place at the back of his skull as soft as a Norfolk dumpling. What
shall we do with him?"
A short consultation then ensued, as to how they should dispose of the
dead body, till at length it was agreed that the horse should be
caught, the corpse flung over it, and thus carried to the neighbouring
hamlet. This was effected without much trouble; and the whole scene
became wild, and silent, and solitary once more.